He visits me at least once every day. His favourite time is the hour of
tea, when the family and staff may be expected to be at home; but sometimes
he honours us with an additional call at the luncheon hour. He emerges from
his deep hole beneath an ivy root, takes the air up and down the paths of
my rockery, glances in at the drawing-room window, passes on to the back
premises, and so home.
There is nothing furtive about his movements. His manner is that of one who
has purchased the mansion and its appurtenances but does not wish to
disturb the sitting tenants. It is his duty to sea that the premises are
properly cared for, but for the present he has no desire to take
possession. It is beautiful weather and the simple life out-of-doors
contents him.
He is a brown rat. I write of his sex with confidence because his urbanity
is that of a polished gentleman of the world; no feminine creature could
ever display it. A female rat who had bought the house would eagerly try to
get in and drive us forth. But not so my rat. He discharges the function of
a landlord as considerately as he can; after all, even a landlord must be
allowed the rights of inspection of his own property.
At first I regarded him as merely an ordinary intrusive brown rat. I laid
down poisonous pills composed of barium carbonate and flour. He did not
take offence; he understood our human limitations. He showed by a jaunty
cock of the eye that all to understand is all to pardon. His daily visits
continued without abatement.
It has been suggested to me that we should await his regular calls with
dogs, blood-thirsty terriers. I cannot take so scurvy an advantage of his
confidence.
* * * * *
I have sinned. The fault is less mine than that of the High Court of
Parliament. I was bidden to study the penalties laid down for those who do
not proceed to the destruction of their rats. When I weighed my landlord
rat against five treasury notes I confess that in an hour of meanness I
permitted the notes to tip the scale. I prepared phosphor paste and laid a
trail of this loathsome condiment upon the path trodden every afternoon by
my rat.
He came as usual on the day after that on which I had basely planned his
murder--Heaven forgive me!--that I might escape a trifling fine, and he
deigned to partake of my hospitality. Twenty-four hours later, when duty
summoned him once more at the hour of tea, his eye was dim and he staggered
slightly in his gait. He was still able to go his rounds, but since that
tragic afternoon I have seen him no more.
My family eyes me with suspicion. They look for the rat, which no longer
arrives at his accustomed hour. My cook has given notice. I alone bear the
burden of the fatal secret.
* * * * *
Saved! What care I for five paltry pounds now that our rat has recovered
from his indisposition and has hastened to re-visit his property? The
phosphor paste, like arsenic, has added brightness to his eye and brought a
beautiful lustre to his smooth brown coat. He has softened in his manner
and tends towards friendship. There is less of the grand air, less
assertion of the vast gap which yawns between the landlord and the tenant.
Presently, if I continue to prove worthy of his condescension, my rat will
eat phosphor paste out of my hand.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jack_ (_to novice in difficulties with the tide_). "THE
NEXT TIME YOU SPORTSMEN TAKES AN OUTIN' TRY A NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN BUS."]
* * * * *